In the winter the Bar Q outfit in the foothill ranch
had dwindled down to eight men. These were all
riders, men who "rode the fences" and kept them
in repair; men who rode the range, and made the rounds
of the fields, counted and kept account of the cattle
remaining on the ranch, and reported sick or crippled
cattle to the veterinary surgeon maintained at the
ranch.
The breeding stock had been despatched to the
prairie ranch in the fall, where they were especially
housed and cared for. The beef stock, three-year-old
steers, were also disposed at the grain ranch, where
they were fed on chop and green feed and hay, to fatten
them for the spring market.
The purebred heifers and cows had their own home
at Barstairs, where also was the camp of the purebred
bulls.
At the foothill ranch only the younger stuff was left,
the yearling and rising two-year-old heifers and steers,
and these sturdy young stuff "rustled" over the winter
range, finding sufficient sustenance to carry them
through the winter. The cook car was closed, and
the men "batched" in the bunkhouses but came to the
main ranch house for bread, butter and general supplies.
Nettie, long ignorant of her condition, had from day
to day passed out the supplies to the men, unconscious
of and indifferent to their scrutiny. She failed to
realize that what had become apparent to her mistress,
had also been revealed to the cunning eyes of the
Bar Q "hands."
Bunkhouses in a ranching country are breeding
places for the worst kind of gossip and scandal, to
which disgusting commerce men even more than women
are addicted. It was, therefore, not long before Nettie's
name became first whispered and then carelessly
bandied among them. At her name eyes rolled, winks
and coarse laughter were the rule where but a little
while ago she had been the object of admiring respect
and aspiration.
Cyril Stanley's name was also on each man's tongue,
and they all took it for granted that he was responsible
for Nettie's condition. A change in their manner
toward the girl followed the loose talk about her; there
were certain meaning looks, a new familiarity of
speech, and presently worse than that. "Pink-eyed"
Tom, a man whose dirty boasts concerning women were
a source of endless fun among the men, came to the
house one day for a side of bacon. He followed Nettie
into the big storeroom, where the Bar Q meat supply
hung. As she passed the bacon to him, Pink-Eye managed
to seize her hand, and with a broad grin, he
squeezed it, and attempted to draw her to him. It
was only a momentary grasp, but with the chuckle that
went with it the girl understood and turned first deathly
white and scarlet with anger.
"Guess you ain't used to man-handling--oh, no!"
said Tom, and as she fiercely withdrew from his grasp,
he laughed in her face, with an ugly meaning leer that
set her heart frantically beating.
She flew from the storeroom to the kitchen, and stood
with her back pressed against the door, holding it
closed. A sickening fear of the whole race of men
consumed her. She longed to escape to some place beyond
their sight or ken where she might at least hide
herself and be allowed the boon of suffering unmolested
and unseen. She had a passionate longing to escape
from the Bar Q--to leave forever the hateful place
where she had been so cruelly betrayed, where she had
suffered almost beyond endurance. But the thought
of leaving Mrs. Langdon hurt her more than the
thought of staying, and her mind wandered in the hopeless
search of a solution to her appalling problem. She
thought of her friend "Angel" Loring, with her cropped
hair and men's clothing, and for the first time comprehended
what might drive a woman to do as the Englishwoman
had done.
"A bad report runs a thousand miles a minute," says
an oriental proverb. Certainly that is true of a ranching
country. From bunkhouse to farm and ranch
house raced the tale of a girl's fall; it was a morsel of
exciting news to those dull souls shut in by the rigid
hand of the winter.
On the first Chinook day, women harnessed teams to
democrats and single drivers to buggies, and took the
road to Bar Q. Never had that ranch been favored
with so many visitors. Neither Nettie nor her mistress
suspected that their guests had come to see for themselves
whether there was truth in the story concerning
the girl which had percolated over the telephone and
been carried by riders intent upon retailing the latest
sensation of the foothills. Caste exists not in a ranching
country like Alberta, save among a few rare and
exclusive souls, and a hired girl on a ranch has her own
social standing in the community, especially if she is
that rarity, a pretty girl. So Nettie's plight was of
as supreme an interest to the ranch and farm wives as
if instead of a poor servant girl she had been any
prosperous farmer's daughter. Hired girls are potential
wives for the best of the ranchmen, and many a
farmer's wife has begun her career on a cook car.
Nettie, cutting cake and brewing tea in the kitchen,
paused, tray in hand, white-faced, behind the door, as
the voices of the women close at hand floated through.
"Looked me right in the face, innocent as a lamb,
and she----"
"She's six months gone if a day."
"Seem's if she might've gone straight, being the oldest
in the family. You'd thought she'd want to set an
example to her little brothers and sisters."
"Pshaw! she should worry."
"Ain't girls awful today!"
"When you told me on the 'phone, I couldn't b'lieve
it, and I come along on purpose to make sure for
myself."
"Well, now you see, though I'm not used to havin'
my word doubted."
"Why, Mrs. Munson, I hadn't the idea of questioning
your word; but I thought as you hadn't seen for yourself,
and got it third-hand."
"I got it straight--straight from Batt Leeson, and
he ought to know after workin' more'n ten years at the
Bar Q."
"Personally, I make a point of standing up for the
girl."
The voice this time was a shade gentler, but it was
also flurried and apologetic.
"You know as well as I do, Mrs. Young, if a girl
acts decent, men let her alone. You can tell me!"
Her face stony, her head held high, Nettie pushed
the door open with her foot, and came in with the tray.
She silently served them, but her glance flickered toward
her mistress, who was leaning forward listening to the
whispered words of Mrs. Peterson, cringing toward the
rich cattleman's wife. For the first time since she had
known her, Mrs. Langdon's voice sounded sharp and
cold.
"I'll thank you not to repeat a nasty tale like that.
Nettie Day has just as much right to have a child as
you have."
"Why, I'm a married woman," blurted the outraged
farm wife.
"How do you know Nettie isn't married?"
Chairs were hunched forward. The circle leaned
with pricked-up ears toward the speaker.
"Is she, now?"
"Well, that accounts for it!"
"You couldn't make me believe Nettie was that kind.
We all thought--well, you know how girls carry on today.
I'm sure you'll excuse us. We're all li'ble to
make mistakes."
The Inquisition turned to Nettie.
"My word, Nettie Day, why didn't you let us know?
What on earth did you want to keep it secret for?
The whole country'd turned out to Chivaree for you.
We haven't had a marriage in a year, and Cyril Stanley
is mighty popular with the boys."
Nettie's gaze went slowly around that circle of faces.
She wanted to make sure that all might hear her words.
"I ain't married to Cyril Stanley, and he done me
no wrong. You got no right to talk his name loose like
that."
An exclamatory silence reigned in the room. Mrs.
Langdon, her cheeks very flushed, was sitting up, her
bright eyes, like a bird's, scanning the faces of her
visitors.
"Nettie," her thin, piercing voice was raised, "you
forgot my tea, and--and--maybe you ladies'll excuse
me today. I'm not well, you know."
For the first time since she had become a convert to
her strange philosophy she was admitting illness; but
she was doing it in another's behalf.
As the last of the women disappeared through the
door, and before the murmur of their voices outside
had died out, Mrs. Langdon made a motion of her
hands toward Nettie, and the girl ran over, dropped
on her knees by the couch and hid her face in her mistress's
lap.
"Nettie, don't you mind what they say. Women
are terribly cruel to each other. I don't know why
they should be, I'm sure, for I believe that we all have
in us the same capacities for sinning, only most of us
escape temptation. It's almost a gamble, isn't it,
Nettie; and I'm so sorry, poor child, that you should
have been the one to lose." Her voice dropped to a
whisper. "I'll confess something to you now, Nettie.
I--yes, I--almost----"
"If you're goin' to say something against yourself,"
said Nettie hoarsely, "I don't want to hear it. You
ain't capable ever of doing anything wrong."
On the road, the carriages were grouped together.
Their occupants leaned out and called back and forth
to each other.
"What do you know of that?"
"I'm certainly surprised at Mrs. Langdon. I didn't
think she'd hold to anything like that."
"I did, and I'm not a bit surprised. I could've told
you a thing or two. Birds of a feather flock together,
and she----"
Voices were lowered, as another woman's reputation
was pulled to shreds.
"Well, Mrs. Munson, you don't say so."
"I certainly do."
"I remember when the Bull first married her. Sa-ay,
there was all kinds of talk. Ask anyone who was here
in them times."
Murmurs and exclamations, and a woman's voice
rumbling out a tale that should never have been told.
"Would you've believed it! And she so sweet and
sly of tongue."
"Still waters run deep. You can't trust them quiet
kind. I had it direct from Jem Bowers. You know
Jem. He was right along when it happened. They
were shut in that schoolhouse for two whole days, and
the door locked and bolted. The Bull himself asked
Jem to go for the missionary, and everyone knows Jem
was one of the witnesses at the Langdon wedding. Said
she looked just like a little scared bird, and her eyes
were all screwed up with crying, so I guess doin' wrong
did bring her no happiness."
"Well, I'd never have believed it if you hadn't told
me. I'm going to hustle right off now. I want to stop
and see Mrs. Durkin on my way. She couldn't get off
to come, as they've had the mumps up to their house,
and I promised to let her know, and I'll bet her tongue's
hangin' out waitin'."
"Well, don't say I said it."
"I won't. I'll say I got it from--from--I'll not
name the party. Get ap, Gate! My, that mare's
smart."
"I like geldings for driving. They aren't so quick,
but they're dependable and strong. Good-by. Will
you be at the box social?"
"Sure, what's it for?"
"Oh, them sick folks in the east. Did you hear that
that plague sickness they got in the States has sneaked
across to Canada, and everybody's scared nearly to
death. They've got it awful out in Toronto and Montreal."
"Didn't know it was as bad as that."
"It's something awful out east I heard. My husband
brought home a paper from Calgary, and they had the
whole front page in headlines about it. Them Yankees
brought it in with them when they run away to escape
from it in their own country. Wish they'd stay home
and look after their own sicknesses, 'stead of coming
across the line and carrying it along with them. Others
have been flying out west here, and they say if we don't
look out, first thing we know Calgary'll have it, and then--well,
it'll be our turn. I heard they were shipping
all the sick ones out of the city to the country."
The women looked at each other waveringly, licking
their lips and turning white with dread. They drew
their rugs closer about them and said they had to be
off, as it was getting dark and they didn't want to catch
cold, and no one ever knew when a change might blow
up in the weather and that cloud off to the north looked
mighty threatening. In the sudden panic of the approaching
plague, Nettie was for the time being forgotten.
The clatter and rattle of their wheels was heard
along the road, as with whip and tongue they urged
their horses homeward.